


Of Swings and Scaffolds

by disaster_imp



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Self-Esteem Issues, Geralt-typical angst, I shook a witcher and intergenerational trauma fell out, Lambert does it better, M/M, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28404324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disaster_imp/pseuds/disaster_imp
Summary: Geralt starts noticing some odd things, after he meets the bard.Content notes: There is a reference to off-screen child death.I tend to mash source material together and pick out what works. Although some of the dialogue/first meeting here is via Netflix, there are nods to the books and games as well.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 94
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge: Secret Santa (TWFFSS20)





	Of Swings and Scaffolds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dandelioff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dandelioff/gifts).



> [](https://ibb.co/QQ4S0L9)   
> 

_**Posada** _

Cute, Geralt thinks to himself, watching the pretty bard cavort around the... non-stage. Corner, then, of the small tavern. Terrible song, tolerable voice. The temperature in the crowded room spikes, and he closes his eyes, the barrage of sensory overload that he was tolerating just fine, thank you, until somebody turned the heat up, suddenly overwhelming. Too many bodies packed together, the smells of hard days at work, of sweat and farming and butchering and chandlering and hard labour blending together in a cacophany of pungent, nauseous humanity; the sounds - the singing doesn't grate on his ears, but the undercurrent of rough voices, jagged-edged laughter and too-loud heckling - assaulting his senses.

Geralt tries to focus his attention on his mediocre meal, the weak, bitter-tasting ale, tries to ignore the environment around him so he can finish his meal and _leave,_ and - 

"I love the way you just... sit in a corner and brood," says a voice more melodic than any other in the tavern. This voice is smooth, with no raw edges, doesn't hurt his ears the way other voices do. Still, he's trying to block out the noise. Company is not welcome.

"I'm here to drink alone."

The bard persists, even to following him when he leaves. They pass a strangely macabre child's swing on the way out of town, a simple wooden seat strung with rope over an old hangman's frame, swinging by itself in a light breeze.

"Death, and destiny, heroics and heartbreak..."

"It's onion." _Go away._

The bard makes it abundantly clear that he's only following Geralt to harvest material for his music. After all, who would follow a witcher around if they weren't getting something out of it?

He's beautiful, and Geralt admires him from a distance, but like everyone who's not paid to pretend, he holds no love for witchers and in spite of his songs, and he keeps his distance from Geralt. 

They make a habit of sharing a room to save on coin, it's _practical_. Jaskier often makes himself scarce in the evenings, and Geralt can't begrudge him seeking comfort in the arms of someone else, _anyone else,_ during the night. He pretends to be asleep when Jaskier returns to the room in the early hours of the morning, only to pass out, and then have the audacity to complain about having to get up so early, three hours past dawn.

It's fine. 

  
It's not fine. 

  
Geralt starts to notice more hangmans' gallows in more towns, the bleak emotions evoked by their existence increasing every time one is enhanced with another macabre swing.

  
**_Cintra_ **

Not for the first time, a selkiemore swallows him.

Ugh. He wipes the disgusting remnants of the creature's inside's from his eyes, black slime polluting the innocent earth. He hates selkiemores. He passes a bustling city square on his way back into town, a large wooden gallows sitting in a prominent position. A place that draws _crowds,_ to watch for entertainment. He shudders. such things have always made him nervous. _Sometimes, crowds turn on a witcher..._

Despite killing the creature and cutting his way out, Geralt feels defeated. His trudge back to the inn is slow, bright lights and raucous sounds emanating from inside the tavern. Someone is insisting he's dead, and Jaskier sounds completely unconcerned.

"Ehhh, he's fine."

Geralt sighs. He has no reason to expect the bard to have worried about him, probably just write another hyperbolic ballad about his heroic death and find another witcher to follow about for his stories. Too much to expect, to make a _friend._

"And now, Witcher, it’s time to repay your debt."

_What fucking debt?_

"I've made you famous! By rights, I should be claiming ten percent of all your coin..."

Geralt focuses furiously on the coin in front of him, counting - _not counting._ Trying to reign in the disappointment, the anger, the hurt. _Don't lash out. Don't prove you're the monster they know you to be._ "Fuck off, bard."

Jaskier follows him to the bath, dumping water over his head, whining and cajoling, talking about _friendship._

Geralt knows better. _Nobody is friends with a witcher._

"Well, who knows? Maybe someone out there will want you," the bard taunts.

"I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me."

Jaskier needs him. Needs to use him, as a _bodyguard,_ for protection from cuckolds at the Cintran court, payment for songs Geralt never asked for, and doesn't want. Payment for songs that are so exaggerated and embellished that they bear little resemblence to reality, songs that made the bard famous. Geralt should be charging _him._

"We're not friends."

Geralt can't bring himself to leave. For all the bard's persistent presence, he has no more respect for Geralt as a person than any other human - and he's _still_ the closest thing Geralt has to a friend. He clings to it, like a dog begging for scraps, needy and pathetic. Why would a beautiful man with a beautiful voice even look at him, scarred and old and no longer human, if he didn't get something out of it? He wouldn't.

The banquet is a disaster. Somehow, even though he should know better, Geralt fucks with destiny and ends up with a child surprise.

On their way out of Cintra, Geralt glances at the city square, and the gallows. A child's swing is hanging from the centre of the long beam.

  
_**Kaer Morhen** _

He's finally stopped running from his child surprise. it only took an invasion, and the death of everyone she loved.

"Again, Ciri!" Vesemir barks at her.

Lambert scowls. "We're too hard on her. It's crushing her spirit."

"She has to learn to survive," Geralt says. He wants to go easy on her, but he has to be strong. For her. _She_ needs to be strong. Nilfgaard would show her no mercy in spite of her age.

"Yeah, fuck that," Lambert says, scowling at them both, and disappears.

That next day, in place of the giant, creaking pendulum, is a giant, creaking swing.

Ciri's laughter bubbles happily as Lambert pushes her to impossible heights, then makes her push him, showing off with an agile jump when the swing reaches its zenith, landing with an agile flip on top of a pole. 

"Teach me!" Ciri demands.

Vesemir puts him in charge of Ciri's training. Which... 

Well. Ciri is happy, and training harder than ever. Everyone else soon learns to check their clothing and boots before putting them on, their beds before sleeping, their food before eating. The bastard teaches her _alchemy_ , and their pranks rang from itching powder, to a soap that dyes Geralt's hands bright blue, to something in the food that makes Eskel glow green for a day.

He'd been wrong. Lambert was right. 

"Of course I was right. I'm always right," Lambert says, passing Geralt a demijohn of vodka from his latest batch. They're sitting outside, the early evening sky still lit by the setting sun, the sky dense with stars. The silhouette of the swing taunts his failure as parent and trainer, and Geralt tries not to begrudge Lambert his easy cameraderie with Ciri. 

Vesemir joins them, sitting next to Lambert. He seems unsure of himself, a rare sight for a mentor who always seemed to know exactly what he was doing, and Geralt passes him the demijohn. Vesemir, who Geralt has only seen partake in moderation, skulls enough to render an unmutated human unconscious; for a witcher, enough to be tipsy. _Liquid courage._

"We were wrong," the old man says, placing a hand on Lambert's shoulder. "It was all we knew."

"You were," Lambert says. "But don't absolve yourself with that 'all we knew' crap. It was all I knew too, and I didn't turn into you. Being harsh with us, blaming us for our failures, othering us meant you didn't have to get attached. You did it to protect yourselves from grieving for children, not to protect us."

Geralt tries to intercede, but Vesemir silences him with a wave.

"He's right. I'm glad one of us finally saw through the bullshit and ended the cycle. I'm sorry, boys. You deserved better."

Eskel approaches, Ciri riding on his shoulders, and he drops the girl in Vesemir's lap. "I guess you have another chance to get it right," he says, looking at the bright-eyed, mischievous child. 

Geralt looks up just as rain streaks the sky, droplets reflecting the fading light, making it look like tiny little shooting stars falling all around them. 

  
"Hmm," Lambert says. "I have an idea..."

Things are suspiciously quiet for a few days, until one morning a series of explosions rock the training ground, bringing everyone running. Streaks of white rain down over the training posts, the dummies, the pendulum-swing. Then blue. Then a rainbow of colours that land all over the training ground in bright splotches, making it look like a child's playgrgound.

Which, Geralt supposes, it is.

  
_**Oxenfurt** _

  
Eventually, Yennefer takes Ciri to teach, and Geralt is left with an extra, child-surprise sized hole in his heart. He determines to head back out onto the path but, in a fit of self-pity, finds himself heading directly for Oxenfurt, and Jaskier, instead.

_What? There are monsters to hunt in Redania too..._

He regrets his decision the moment he enters the city, his senses assaulted by the strong scents and loud noises of densely populated humanity late in the morning. He finds a quiet inn, off the main roads, to stable Roach and heads for the University on foot, following worn cobblestone paths, past marketplaces and dressmakers, hawkers and... _another_ gallows bearing a child's swing.

In spite of the students, the University is something of an oasis from the hubbub of daily life. Its walls are high and its grounds extensive, the outside sounds muffled compared to the city proper, a perfect picture of serene academia. Jaskier is giving a lecture, and he finds him in a large auditorium. Geralt doesn't undererstand a word that comes out of his mouth, but the students are riveted and a tightness in his chest he didn't even realises he was carrying suddenly eases at the familiar sight of the man. Bright, well-tailored clothing, a ridiculous feathered hat, hair falling in soft, chestnut-brown waves around his beautifully expressive face. 

Geralt takes a seat at the back of the room, not wanting to draw attention, and waits for the lecture to finish. The students, however, start whispering almost immediately, and when the collective chatter is loud enough that Jaskier has to raise his voice, he frowns in irritation.

 _"May I remind you all_ that there is an examination coming up in two weeks, a composition due in three, and your group and solo performances the week after that, this is _not_ the time for distract - "

Jaskier freezes in place when he locks eyes with Geralt, mouth pursed mid-word, one hand held comically in the air where it had been waving expressively while he talked. He frowns harder. 

"Well, as much as I'd love to dismiss you all early so that _I_ can pursue more interesting endeavours, none of you can afford to slack off now. Pair up and critique each others' compositions, ten minutes each.

"What are you doing here? My tenure is for another month..." Jaskier says after making his way over to Geralt.

_Mutant. Butcher. Monster. He doesn't want me here._

"I - " Geralt tries. _I missed you._

"Eloquent as ever," Jaskier says reaching out a hand to Geralt, pulling back when he realises who he's about to touch. _Filthy witcher,_ echo all the human voices who've ever told him such.

"I have quarters on the grounds, here's the key. Series of apartments suitably far away from the student dormitories, in the eastern corner. Number five on the door. Make yourself at home, I'll be another hour or so. It's good to see you, Geralt."

Geralt nods and turns away, not quite sure what he's doing, why Jaskier is being _nice_ to him.

He's careful not to disturb Jaskier's rooms, taking a seat to wait, but it only takes a minute for restlessness to catch up with him. He should do something useful, payment for the bard's kindness. Nights are still cold, and the stack of firewood is low. He finds a communal woodpile and transfers stacks of wood to fill a sheltered nook at the front of the house, and fills the rack for wood indoors. 

Then he stacks wood for all the other apartments. 

When Jaskier returns, it's with a young woman on his arm. Geralt stops with a jolt and turns to leave. Of course. Jaskier would rather spend time with a companion than with Geralt. He turns to leave, but his pack is still inside...

"I'll collect my gear and go, sorry to have intruded," he says abruptly, stepping through the door.

"... what?" Jaskier says.

"You have company, you don't want me around."

"I most certainly do want you around."

Geralt's forehead crinkles in confusion. "What?"

Jaskier introduces the young woman. "Geralt, this is my friend, Essi. Please don't leave."

"Do you want something from me?"

"Want...?" Jaskier sputters. "What do you mean, want? _You_ sought _me_ out, remember?"

"Another bodyguard escort perhaps, some kind of payment for services rendered?" Geralt tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but judging by the gamut of emotions crossing a highly expressive bard's face, he fails in the endeavour.

"Oh, Geralt..." Jaskier says softly. "Come inside."

Essi stands awkwardly outside the door. "Jask, we can do this later..."

"No my dear, I might need backup. Please stay?"

Jaskier points him to a chair, and Geralt sits reluctantly, hands fidgeting.

"I know you have insecurities, that people have treated you badly, but I didn't realise it was _this_ bad. We are friends, are we not?"

Geralt keeps silent, eyes downcast. He doesn't want to disappoint Jaskier, and he can't _lie_. 

"Geralt, why do you think I seek out your company?"

Ah, this is safer ground. An easy question to answer. "You want material for your songs."

"That's how it started, I guess. I also came to enjoy your company. I consider you a friend. All this time... you thought I was _using you?"_

"You - you don't... you touch _everyone_. Everyone except me."

Jaskier realises he still has Essi's arm in his. "Yes, I'm very tactile. I also believe in consent, and you _flinch_ whenever anyone touches you. You have trouble with many sounds, with crowds, smells, enhanced senses and all that. Some people are like that, I was just trying to respect your needs. Was I wrong?"

"Yes... no. _Fuck."_

"He always talks about you, you know," Essi chimes in, her voice soft and warm and rich. "All the time. When he's here, he pines, can't wait to get back to you. He has security and stability here, he enjoys teaching - " Jaskier scoffs at that, and she punches him on the arm. "You _do._ You thrive on the student drama."

She turns her attention back to Geralt. "He doesn't need a muse, he's good with words, can make anything up. Why do you think he gives up these comforts to travel with you?"

Geralt stares at her.

"Darling, I think you've been reading this wrong."

Geralt's eyes swivel back to Jaskier. _Darling?_

Unable to speak, he looks deep into Jaskier's eyes, searching for the truth. Hoping. Not wanting to hope. Jaskier is watching him, eyes full of concern. _Caring._ Has he been wrong about this all along?

"I might... go," Essi says softly. Jaskier nods, and his eyes don't leave Geralt's for even a moment.

"I've been careful. Too careful, I think, trying not to alienate you because I'm _terrible_ when it comes to saying stupid shit in the moment - and that's not just you, by the way, I piss people off all the time, saying something without thinking it through first. Look, I won't deny, the notoriety that's come from being the White Wolf's bard panders to my _excessive_ ego, but that's not what motivates me to be with you. I - "

Jaskier pauses, and Geralt looks at him quizzically.

"You _like_ me? A _witcher?"_

"Witchers shouldn't be spurned the way they are, and you aren't _just_ a witcher. It's your job, not your personality. You're kind and compassionate. You _always_ get involved, even when you shouldn't, even when people are assholes and nobody would blame you for walking the fuck away from them, but you persist in trying to do the right thing no matter how poorly they treat you. I wanted to change peoples' perceptions, I wanted my words to let them see you as human, as heroes, as something _better_ than the refuse people treat you as. Nobody deserves that. I like you, yes. More than that. I care for you very deeply. I miss you when you're not around, I _ache_ when you're hurting. Please, may I, _and only if you want it,_ touch you?"

Geralt barely has time to nod his head, and Jaskier has a hand on his, picking it up and pressing his palm to his lips. "I'm sorry people have treated you so badly that you doubted me. Oh, hey..." 

Jaskier reaches a hand to brush away tears that Geralt hadn't noticed forming, pressing their foreheads together, and Geralt raises a tentative hand to the back of Jaskier's neck.

"You are the person I love most in the world. I'm sorry I failed you."

"I - you didn't. I... misunderstood."

"No. You can't help something you've been conditioned to believe. I should have recognised it. I guess I put you on a pedestal of witchery perfection, and that wasn't fair either."

Geralt huffs a laugh through his tears. "Perfection."

"It's not my fault you can't see it," Jaskier chides with a soft smile, and he kisses - _kisses_ \- the tears from Geralt's cheeks.

"I have a month left of my tenure. Will you stay with me? Start over. Get to know each other properly. Talk about all the ways we've miscommunicated over the years. I'm hardly faultless, I'm not _nice,_ I'll have you know."

"Used the last of my coin stabling Roach - "

"I can afford it. Look, weve shared funds on the path before, although now I'm wondering if perhaps your view of that was different to mine?"

Geralt nods.

"Then let me make it up to you. Be a kept witcher for a while, or I'm sure you can find work in the city, if you want it. I have a steady income here and little to waste it on, it's not like I waste time collecting wordly goods that I can't take with me when I travel. There are stables here, too. Where is Roach?"

"At the inn near the Rosebud."

Jaskier laughs. "Of course. They'll look after her there. Shall we collect her, then? Shani's house is on the way too, if you would like to visit."

Geralt brightens a little at that, and Jaskier holds out his hands to pull him to his feet. It's an unnecessary gesture, _an excuse to touch,_ and although he requires no assistance, Geralt takes the hands and lets them pull him to his feet.

On the way, they pass the same scaffold that Geralt had passed on his way to the university. He stops in the middle of the road, and Jaskier bumps into his shoulder.

"Who the fuck does that?" Geralt asks, waving a hand at the dreadful structure.

Jaskier fails to respond, and Geralt turns to him with a frown. Guilt is written all over his face. 

"Well, you see..."

"You did this? Why? Do you find it _funny?"_

Jaskier's posture straightens, and he looks Geralt dead in the eye, his tone clipped. "I do _not_. You really don't know me, do you?"

"What then?"

"Geralt, they hanged a fifteen-year old here last week for stealing _bread_. Still a child, homeless and just trying to survive. The gallows are for the poor, do you think a wealthy merchant or shopowner would be hung for the same crime? I've tried, agitating for changes to law, tried finding ways to spread charity so people don't starve, but I am but one person and I am not often here. I'm a fucking poet, Geralt. I'm not above using theatre to make a statement."

"Was it you, in the other towns too? Is that where you were sneaking off to at night?"

"Yes."

"Even if it didn't involve children?"

"Innocents are always caught up. Words have power, Geralt. _My_ words have power, they can change the way people think."

Geralt hums, catching Jaskier's hand with his. Worries, for a moment, that he's gone too far, until the hand, soft and warm, squeezes back.   


**Author's Note:**

> Look, this fic is a train wreck, the whole bit at Kaer Morhen is completely irrelevant to the rest of the story, it's just there because I wanted it. And I can never resist a good dig at Elder Witchers, because I am perpetually mad about it.
> 
> Dandelioff: I rattled your fics to see what fell out, so I hope this bizarre little puddle of angsty Geraskier hits it mark. Happy end of the year!


End file.
